


Things That Happened in Bed in Winterfell

by kirazi



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Drunk Sex, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Facesitting February, First Time, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Missing Scene, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Porn with Feelings, Various Sex Acts Not Otherwise Specified, because jaime/brienne/bathtubs are my OT3, there's also at least one bath scene, turns out they don't just do it in bed
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:46:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kirazi/pseuds/kirazi
Summary: (a series of linked ficlets & oneshots about, well, what it says on the tin)
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 227
Kudos: 405
Collections: J/B Monthly Madness: February 2020, J/B Monthly Madness: March 2020





	1. get some sleep, it's going to be a long war (Jaime POV, masturbation)

**Author's Note:**

> This is a collection of E- and M-rated ficlets I initially started writing on tumblr, plus additional short oneshots, including a version of TBTWP that I drafted back in the summer, a morning-after scene based on a passage from Ring Them Bells, and more to come. Mostly but not exclusively Jaime POV and not fully chronological in order; see chapter titles for details. Technically canon-compliant, insofar as everything takes place prior to the end of 8x04, but canon-defiant in spirit. This can also be read as a prequel to either of my fix-its.
> 
> The first one is Roccolinde's fault because she talked me into writing sad wankfic. I am in her debt.

Jaime can’t sleep. He’s exhausted; bone-tired from a month of rattling northwards on horseback in freezing weather, unsure what reception might await him in Winterfell, save that it wasn’t likely to be a warm one. He’d been right enough about that, and the wearying ordeal of being tried for his life and granted an entirely unexpected reprieve, all in one morning, has left him lightheaded with something beyond exhaustion: a strange, hollow feeling, like he’s come unmoored from himself.

So he ought to be halfway to unconsciousness the moment he stretches his aching body out on the pallet a scornful serving-girl had tossed on the floor of Tyrion’s room—he’d been tempted to commandeer the bed, since Tyrion doesn’t appear to be heading for it anytime soon, and it’s not as if his little brother really needs all that room. But he doesn’t want to press his shaky welcome any further, and in any case the pallet is easier to drag to the hearth. He’s finally almost warm, for the first time in weeks. But he can’t sleep.

Instead, he’s thinking about Brienne. He’s been thinking about her all day; she’d been on his mind since before he’d even ridden through the gate. The shock of being confronted with Brandon Stark’s pale, emotionless face had driven her from his thoughts, temporarily, but then he’d been hauled into that hastily-assembled court of judgment and he’d known, without turning his head to look, that she was there, in the room. And then she’d come striding past him, without even looking him in the eye, and spoken for him, in the face of Daenerys’s fury and Sansa’s scorn, as if she intended to place herself between him and any vengeance they felt themselves entitled to—he still can’t quite bring himself to examine the feeling that had risen in his chest when she’d defended his tarnished honor. Saved his life, most likely, for all that Tyrion would have done the same, or tried to.

He’d sought her out in the training yard, after; pledged himself to her service as best he could, stumbling over the words—still reeling, internally, almost tongue-tied in the face of her snappish bewilderment, overwhelmed with the shock of seeing her again. It was like being plunged into deep, cold water: jolting and agonizing and invigorating all at once. Like being startled awake, suddenly, from a restless, feverish slumber. And now he can’t sleep.

The look on her face had been so _strange_ , both uncertain and indignant; he’d been unable to tell whether the crimson stain on her cheeks and nose was the mark of anger, or just the chilled air. She’d been angry in the Dragonpit, too, when she’d seized him by the shoulder, when she’d said _fuck loyalty_ in that desperate low voice. That was the last time she’d touched him, and the first time, since Harrenhal. A strange shudder goes through him when he fixes on that thought, even though she’d made no move to touch him today. Or him, her. If he’d dared to lift a hand to her face, her skin would have been cold, chapped from the wind, but her breath would have been warm on his palm.

And with that thought, he’s aware—uncomfortably so—that he’s half-hard. More than half. _Fuck._ He shouldn’t be thinking about this—thinking about her, like this. It’s a little startling to find himself feeling the urge at all. On the ride north, it had been almost absent, as if all his desire had been leached from his body along with the warmth. The thaw comes as a surprise. Brienne’s been on his mind, in his dreams, for so long now that he hadn’t really understood what it would be like to be in her presence once more, to be confronted all over again with her height, her strength, with the astonishing fact of her body. And now— _oh fuck_ —he’s thinking about what she looks like, what he knows she looks like, under all that fur and leather and steel, under the armor he gave her—the armor he’d had made for her, made to fit her, because he remembered the shape of what it would encase.

He’s not just half-hard, now. His cock is stiff and aching, and he gives in, fumbles under the blanket and unlaces his breeches just enough to release it and wrap his hand around himself and _oh,_ gods, it feels better than it has in a long, long time. He doesn’t do this as much as he used to; after the loss of his hand it had been fumbling and frustrating for a long while, just another fucking thing to relearn, the reminder of what he was missing often spoiling the mood. He’d got used to that eventually, but still, it’s mostly a perfunctory act nowadays: a release of pent-up need, rather than a genuine pursuit of pleasure. Just another way to ease the constant, awful tension, and make slumber come a little easier.

But now he can’t sleep, and he’s thinking about Brienne, and as he strokes himself, slow and steady, he surrenders to it, and lets himself think of her: the water streaming off her sturdy haunches, the flush spreading over her chest, down to those small, high breasts, sweeping past the freckles dappling all that impossible expanse of pale skin. He wonders if she’d been flushing today, too, under the armor, while they argued—gods, the _thought_ of it—and he groans a little, gripping himself more firmly, picking up speed, thumbing over the wetness at the head. He should be ashamed of himself, he knows, but he doesn’t stop, because he’s also thinking about her cunt: about the faint outline of the soft flesh visible behind the tangle of hair at the join of her thighs, darker there than on her head, and more unruly. Oh, if he could touch her—he’d use his hand first, seeking out what he’d seen, coaxing her open, and fasten his mouth over one of those pink nipples, and he can just imagine the sounds she’d make, indignant and wanting. She’d be so warm, stretched out beside him, beneath him, _on top of him_ —oh _fuck_ —and once he’d teased her wet and ready, she’d take him in, she’d surround him, warmer than the fire. His hips are driving him forward now, faster. He’s rutting into his clenched hand, his breath coming in ragged pants, because it feels so good, she’s so good, she’d be so good to him, and that’s the thought that takes him to the brink, inescapable, and tumbles him over the edge, lingering as he strokes himself through it, still there as he gradually comes back to himself, trembling, in the wake.

The shame captures him again for a moment, as he cleans himself with the hem of his ragged shirt, still catching his breath, but then he slips back out of its grasp, because nothing can hold him, now: he’s tumbling into darkness, into a deep and dreamless sleep.


	2. dreamed of you (Jaime POV, post-nightmare h/c, no sex)

It’s the fourth, maybe fifth night he’s spent in her bed that Jaime finds himself waking abruptly, scanning the dim chamber with a soldier’s instinct for something wrong. But there are no dark forms lurking in the shadows, no figure slipping through the door—there’s just the harsh, ragged sound of Brienne’s breathing, giving way to a low, desperate moan. She’s still asleep, but her back and shoulders are rigid, locked with tension, and in the faint glow of the embers he can see her eyes darting rapidly under the closed lids—and he realizes that it’s _there_ , the wrong thing; it’s whatever she’s seeing in her mind’s eye. So he reaches for her arm, to shake her awake—and a heartbeat later he’s flung on his back, pinned and choking, a muscled forearm over his throat and her other hand holding his good arm fast to the bed.

“Brienne,” he croaks, gasping for air, “Brienne, wake up,” and it takes another two heartbeats, or three—his pulse loud and sluggish in his ears—before her eyes begin to focus, her gaze stumbling back from whatever she was seeing to the present, the room, to him. And then her face floods with realization, and heat, and she makes an awful little sound. She lurches off him, as quickly as she’d pinned him down, and hurls herself away, to the far end the bed, curling in on herself, hands coming up to cover her face.

“Brienne,” he breathes, again, once he’s dragged air enough back into his lungs. He levers himself up, feeling the searing imprint of her grip as if it’s been branded on his skin—he’ll have bruises, he thinks, in the morning, and a shocking jolt of desire goes through him at the thought. But it dissipates just as quickly at the sight of her: huddled in a miserable lump across the bed, out of reach.

“Are you,” he says, and stops, because she’s obviously not all right, and he has no idea what the fuck to do about that, and he’s not sure if he should touch her, not until he understands what’s wrong. She’s not used to sharing a bed, he knows—of course, neither is he, not like this, night after night in a row.

“Don’t worry,” he says, after a moment more. “You didn’t hurt me,” he tells her, trying to sound steady and reassuring, even though what he’s actually thinking is _you did, a little, but I liked it._

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, sounding small and humiliated, and he can’t possibly have that, so he makes himself chuckle and say, “My fault entirely, Ser. I ought to know better by now than to startle a knight awake like that.”

She uncurls a bit, the tension in her easing just a fraction, but she still won’t look at him, and she’s trembling a little, the battle-ready tension burning off, or maybe it’s shivering—she’s bare, they both are, all the covers knocked aside in the tussle. So he reaches for the furs and leans over just far enough to draw them back onto her, up her gooseflesh arms, moving slowly so as not to startle her again. She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t shy away, so he keeps his hand there, waiting, feeling the skitter of her pulse at the juncture where her throat and shoulder meet. She takes a deep breath, and then another, and he recognizes it clearly enough, the way she’s pulling herself back together.

“Wights, or dragons?” he asks, light and conversational, as if he’s inquiring about how she prefers her tea. “It’s usually fire, for me, although not always a dragon's.” He doesn’t elaborate; she knows enough of his past to fill in the rest, and he’s not going to mention the other things he dreams about: the children, everyone he’s loved and lost, all the possible fates of the few left to him now.

“Neither,” she says, quietly. There’s a pause, and then: “Locke’s gang,” she tells him, like she’s admitting to something, and amid a prickle of surprise and discomfort, he realizes she is. Oh, she’s bold enough facing down an icy death with a sword in hand, his lady knight, but she hates to reveal any weakness. He thinks of her baring her teeth at the bear, bloody and defiant and unwilling to show her tormentors any shred of fear. He draws his hand across her collarbone, then, until his thumb can reach the scars on her shoulder, gently caressing the faint white lines.

“It’s strange,” he says, “that I’ve never dreamed about them taking my hand. The memory is vivid enough when I’m awake, but it doesn’t haunt me in my sleep.” He pauses, watching her. “But I’ve dreamed about—that I didn’t make it back to Harrenhal in time.”

Brienne’s eyes are wide and dark, shadowed pools drawing him deeper. She doesn’t say anything, just looks at him, steady, for a long moment, and then she shuffles closer, until their heads are sharing the pillow again. So he loops his arm around her back and draws her close, holding her warm against his chest, waiting for sleep to come claim them once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> will I ever get tired of writing self-indulgent trope-y af emotional h/c for these two? nope.
> 
> (also, you bet he's going to convince her to pin him down in an awake and fully-consensual manner; stay tuned)


	3. overpower you, fling you down (Jaime POV, light dom/sub)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a sequel to "dreamed of you," originally written for sameboots. 
> 
> (because we all know jaime was projecting hard when he made that taunt about being strong enough)

Brienne winces when she sees the bruises, the next night, and something in his chest constricts at the way that anxious, shamed little flicker tugs down the corner of her generous mouth. He wants to kiss that look away, make sure it never comes back. So he finishes pulling the shirt over his head, one-handed, and then crosses to where she’s standing by the fire and rises up to catch her lips with his, slow and thorough, until he feels her soften against him and she breaks the kiss to gasp for air. Her hands are cool on his chest, and he sees her frown again, just slightly, as her thumb drifts back toward the mark it had pressed into his collarbone, when she’d come thrashing awake and pinned him to the bed.

“I don’t mind,” he tells her, and she blinks at him, bewildered. He has no idea how to say these things. He’s never tried to explain this before. There’s never been anyone to explain it to.

“When you held me down,” he says, letting his hand trail down her side, fingers tracing the seam of her shirt, her skin warm through the cloth, feeling her inhale—“I didn’t mind. I’d—I’d have liked it,” he stumbles on, in a rush, “if you’d been awake. If I hadn’t been worried about you. I’d like it, if you did it that way.”

He sees her flush, eyes wide and startled, but he also hears it again, that quick indrawn breath—a sound he’s learning to recognize as desire. So—she likes the idea, he thinks. Maybe not quite as much as he does, but still, it’s there.

He draws her shirt open, feeling the same stunned appreciation as he had the first time—gods, all that skin, like new cream, foaming with just the faintest spray of freckles here in the dead of winter—and gets his mouth on her, because he’d figured this part out fast, even in a wine-sodden, desperate haze: there’s no better way to draw Brienne out of her self-consciousness than his teeth scraping her nipple, his tongue tracing the modest curve of her breast. She’s wonderfully sensitive there, and seeing her so quickly overwhelmed fires him with lust, and also a pure, worshipful kind of delight—at making her come undone, finding the key that unlocks her.

He doesn’t mean to rush this, but it’s not long before they’re both fumbling free of their remaining garments, tumbling onto the fur-covered bed together, kissing urgently, and Jaime sprawls on his back and coaxes Brienne atop him, relishing the solid weight of her.

“Do it,” he says, pleading now, and after a moment caught in hesitation, she does—he feels her strong, graceful hands, firm at his wrists, and the heft of her long, muscled body straddling his thighs, pinning him in place, overpowering him. His hips strain upwards, his cock desperately seeking friction, any part of her to grind against. But she holds him down, makes him wait, and it goes through him like a bolt—leaving him aching and needy, but also somehow content beyond measure: safe, relieved of duty. He’s in her hands, now, and she’ll take good care of him.

Brienne drags herself against him, experimentally, and oh, she’s _molten_ , her cunt wet and hot and swollen where it grazes his thigh, his cock, _oh fuck_ , that feels _good_ , and he bites his lip and whimpers, grateful and eager, pleased to be of service. There’s a brief interlude of fumbling as she positions herself—she releases his stump to grasp his cock and guide it to her entrance, but he doesn’t move his arm an inch; he stays where she’s put him, and he sees her take note of that, sees the sudden flare of approval in her eyes, and fuck, he’s going to come before he’s even all the way inside her if he doesn’t muster every bit of control he's got.

When she sinks down on him, he moans—he can’t help it—and he moans again when she starts to move, slow and steady, her hands back on his wrists. It almost, almost hurts—the weight of her upper body channeled into those battle-roughened palms, pressing his bones into the bed—but it’s a good feeling, humbling and steadying, and he welcomes it. He can’t move, can’t touch her back—all he can do is stay here and take it, as she takes her pleasure from him, and let his senses narrow to the feeling of her corded heat clenching around his cock. He looks up at her in wonder: her eyes half-lidded, sweat beading in the flat hollow between her breasts, her teeth worrying at her lower lip. She alters the angle of her hips just slightly, starts to move faster, and he moans again at the sound of her inhaled breath, and her eyes come back into focus, fixed on him, her cheeks flushed. Jaime can’t help but think what he must look like, to her—spread out, surrendered, at her mercy—and that’s it, that does it, he’s going over the edge, crying out as he arches upwards, pulsing into her.

He’s lost for a long moment, so undone that his mind registers confusion at the sudden prickling cramp in his hand, before he realizes that Brienne has let go of his wrists and slid off of him, her limbs forming a tangle on the bed at his side. He turns and puts his face in her shoulder, feels her arm come around him, solid and warm, her hand stroking his back.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into her damp skin, because he hadn’t meant for it to be over that quickly, before she’d even—

“Don’t,” she says, and he looks up and finds her watching him, a little wide-eyed, fond. “I liked it too,” she says, after a moment, and then, “you looked—” and she pauses, blushing, and gives a little shake of her head, like she’s lost for words. “I liked it,” she repeats, and he feels himself grinning in reply.

“Good,” he says, flexing his hand, trying to chase the lingering stiffness from the fingers—oh well, if not, he can just start with his mouth, instead—“because I’m going to thank you _very_ thoroughly.”


	4. you keep it warm enough (Jaime POV, first time)

He’s a fool, a drunken fool, and he has no idea what to say to her. He’d followed her, stopping to swipe a flagon of wine and two cups, feeling the heat of his little brother’s knowing, mocking gaze; he’d come to her door almost automatically, deliberately suppressing the impulse to pause, to think, to consider what he’d do when he got there. He’d barged in and stripped off his jerkin and made a series of idiotic comments about the game, about the heat, about the idiot wildling who’s been shamelessly eyefucking her since Jaime’s arrival in Winterfell, and probably long before. And he’d admitted the truth—too stunned by her forthrightness to do otherwise—when she’d called him jealous, because the wine’s gone to his head and stolen away with the reins he’s held fast on his mouth for so long, all his careful pretense to be anything other than what he is: a lovesick fool, aching for her attention, her approval, her touch. He’d gnawed at the ties of his tunic until she’d battered his hand away in her impatience, and then he’d set it on the laces of her shirt, heedless in his desire—and after that heart-stopping moment when he’d thought she was saying no, thought he’d got it all wrong and fucked up the last good thing in his stupid, useless life, she’d replaced it with her own, and started to pull them open. He’s transfixed, watching as she unlaces the shirt, revealing the strip of pale skin between her hidden breasts, down to her belly—fuck, he can’t help staring at her fingers, and then staring at her face, which mirrors something of the nervous anticipation he’s feeling, as well as a bravery he can only hope to accomplish. He’s astonished by her all over again.

He’s still staring, transfixed with lust and awe and fear, when he feels her hands at his waist, tugging the tunic up and over his head, the edge of her hand grazing against his side, setting his skin afire. She gets it off him, and he shakes his false hand out of the cloth, and then she meets his eyes at last, her own wide with a vulnerability that belies the boldness of her actions, and in a quick, decisive motion, bares herself to him.

“I’ve never slept with a knight before,” he tells her, because he can’t confess outright what it feels like, what it means, to be here on the precipice of this thing he’s been wanting and denying for so long. It’s momentous.

“I’ve never slept with anyone before,” she says, low-voiced: a confession to match his own, so he takes refuge in the familiar idiocy of the pretext he’s been relying on to make it this far.

“Then you have to drink,” he reminds her, airily, “those are the rules.”

“I told you—” she starts, and he can’t dissemble any longer, can’t wait even a second more, so he rises up on his toes and crushes his mouth to hers, shoving his hand in her hair, pulling her closer. He’s caught her by surprise, and she reels for a moment, almost stumbling back, but then she surges forward, kissing him hard, clumsy and eager, her mouth betraying what she must have been unable to find the words for, too: the force of her desire, the intensity with which she wants this, has possibly been wanting it as long as he has. She tastes like wine and salt and spit, and it’s marvelous, and he drags her to him, feeling the small swells of her breasts soft against his chest, her nipples hardening. His fingers trace a path down, from her skull to her ear to her neck, to the soft flesh at the hollow of her throat, and he pulls her closer, his other arm reaching around her for leverage—and then she flinches when his false hand drifts up past the waist of her trousers and comes into contact with her skin. He jerks his arm away, and freezes, breaking the kiss.

Jaime feels sick for a moment. Brienne blinks at him, startled. But before he can step back, she says, “it’s—it’s all right—the metal is just cold, that’s all,” and reaches for his arm, bringing it between them. She starts to undo the leather straps that bind it to his wrist, slow and sure, darting a quick look at his face. He holds still, not speaking, as she removes the cuff, and then her fingers close around his stump, cool and gentle, almost caressing the scarred skin. She leans in slowly, a little hesitant, to kiss him again, his arm trapped between their bodies. It takes him a moment to move—he feels stunned, like a bird that’s flown into a windowpane—but then he’s kissing her back, awestruck and ravenous, and he tugs his arm out of her grasp and puts it at the small of her back, drawing her close, and bringing his good hand up to bury it in her hair again. His tongue is in her mouth and her skin is on his from hip to shoulder and he’s forgotten how to breathe and the fire is hot at his side. Then he’s shoving her in the direction of the bed, still pressed together, walking her backwards until the backs of her knees hit the edge.

He loosens his hold on her to fumble at the tie of her trousers, but she takes over again, unlacing them for him, and then, after a moment’s pause, reaching for his breeches. All right: he lets her do the work, willingly, while he toes his feet out of his boots, and then he shoves it all off, lets her see him, how hard he is, how desperate. He tugs her trousers down a little more gently, trying to take care with her, to show a little patience. She steps out of the puddle of cloth, and then stands before him, awkward and ungainly and almost defiant, like she’s trying very hard not to appear shy. It’s endearing, and impossible, to see her revealed so completely, a vision from all his carefully tended memories of the bath at Harrenhal, but marked now with a new map of bruises and scratches, close enough to smell her, touch her skin. It’s more intoxicating than the wine.

Jaime reaches for her, runs his hand over her, shoulder to rib to thigh, feeling the taut muscle under the softness, and waits for her to touch him back. It takes a moment, but then she responds, and her palms are cool on his heated skin as they trace his shoulders and back, exploring, and he leans up to fasten his mouth to hers again. Somehow they manage to fall onto the bed without further mishap, and then the whole marvelous pale length of her is there alongside him, every inch: her hands in his hair, her toes grazing the soles of his feet.

His head is spinning—he shouldn’t have drunk so much of the bloody wine, except if he hadn’t, he might not have summoned the reckless courage to make it to her door—and he knows he should say something, but he keeps reaching for words and failing. He can’t help, for a moment, thinking of Cersei; he doesn’t want to, but it’s the only point of reference he has, and he’s grateful, actually, that the contrast is so striking. Brienne is so much bigger, so much stronger; she smells of sweat and smoke and herself, not of hair oil and delicate perfume; her motions are unpracticed, not familiar and knowing—even the gasping pattern of her breaths is different, and it steadies him a little, reminding him of who he’s doing this with, grounding him in the present. This is new for him, and he knows it’s even newer for her, so he pulls himself together enough to slow down, to trace his fingers across her bruised cheek, to kiss her softly, to catch her eyes. Her pupils are huge, almost blown. He can feel the fast thud of her heartbeat through the flushed patch of skin between her breasts when he sets his palm there. He wants to take his time, settle her down, make it good for her, but there’s a fire raging through him, and he can tell, despite her lingering self-consciousness, that it’s burning in her, too, bright and fierce and hungry.

He mouths along the curve of her jaw and nuzzles her neck and kisses her bruised shoulder, and then he cups her right breast in his hand and sucks the stiffened nipple into his mouth, listening to her gasp in response, feeling her arch towards him. He slides his hand down over her belly and between her legs and she makes a soft whining sound as his fingers brush through the coarse tangle of hair. Her hands are roving over his back like she’s desperate to draw him closer, pull him under her skin, but unsure how.

“Show me how to touch you,” he murmurs into her skin. His fingers delve further, searching and teasing, stroking along the lips of her cunt. She’s so wet already. “Tell me what you like.”

“I don’t know, I’m not— _oh,_ ” she says, incoherently—the pitch of her low voice is rising, and it drives him mad; he wants to hold her down and shove himself inside her, or tease her until _she_ pins him down and takes him herself. 

“Have you done this?” he asks her, greedy now. “Have you thought of me?” He thinks she’ll be too embarrassed to respond, but she nods into his shoulder, a silent yes, and he growls in wordless triumph, and then sets himself to it with determined resolve, cupping his hand over her mound and pushing a finger in, then another— _oh_ , she’s hot and tight and wet, she’s so strong here, too, of course she is—and moves his thumb in deliberate circles above, until she starts to move in return, her hips rocking against him, and he shifts his palm so she can grind herself onto the heel of his hand.

He suckles at her breasts, one after another, revelling in every small whimper and sigh—gods, he wants to put his mouth on her cunt, taste her inside and out, but he’s dizzy and he’s unsure if she’s ready for that, worries that it might startle her. And she’s found her rhythm now, she’s not holding back any longer, so he just keeps going until his hand is soaked and his wrist is starting to cramp and she’s arching up against him, crying out wordlessly, the silken heat of her clenching around his fingers, her whole body tensing in waves and then going slack with release.

Jaime can’t help feeling an unseemly sort of pride at the thought: this is the first time she’s come at another’s hand. He’s overcome by the need to see her face, then, so he props himself up on an elbow, to look at her properly—she’s flushed all over, her hair a tousled mess, her bottom lip red where she’s bitten at it, but her eyes are shining, a little astonished, and she’s staring at him like he’s equally impossible, something amazing. Then he can’t stop himself from kissing her, sweet and deliberate, drunk again on the wonder of that look. He means to take a moment, let her catch her breath, before finding some way to attend to his needy cock, but she’s the one who acts first, pulling him on top of her and canting her hips, a little clumsily, in a manner that makes it obvious what she’s offering, what she’s going to let him do.

“You’re sure,” he manages to say, and it doesn’t come out sounding like the question he’d meant it to, but she gives him a small nod, breathless and resolute, so he kisses her again, hard, and follows her lead, moving along her until his cock is straining against her belly, then sliding over her cunt, almost shuddering at the feeling of her slick and swollen flesh. She’s got her arms around him, now, and he looks into her eyes, a desperate, final question, and she nods again, unhesitating—always brave, his Brienne. So he does it: he pushes into her, just the head at first, moving slowly, even as he gasps at the maddening, perfect sensation of her body taking him in, drawing him deeper. It feels so good already, it’s so much, but he waits for her to respond, keeping his eyes steady on her face. Her eyes flutter closed, for a moment, but she doesn’t wince or grimace, just tightens her hands on his waist, slides them a little lower. And then she opens her eyes, her grip on him firm, now, encouraging, and she takes a deep breath and nods again, and Jaime lets himself go, finally giving in to the impulse to thrust. He fists his hand in the furs to anchor himself and plunges into her, harder and faster and deeper, until he’s losing himself completely, groaning into her neck, her fingers clenching tight on his arse, then he’s there, on the brink, lightning jolting through his body, and he only barely manages to pull out in time to spend onto the sweat-slicked skin of her belly, bereft at the sudden loss of her surrounding warmth.

He collapses against her, both of them gasping, and rests his forehead on her shoulder, winded, feeling the faint parallel ridges of the scars at her collarbone under his cheek. Her sword hand is stroking up and down his back, the rough calluses of her fingers soothing and gentle, as their breathing evens out, as he comes back to himself, to the cramps and aches settling into his bones, the cool shiver of the air on his softening cock.

Jaime levers himself up off of her, and slumps onto the furs alongside, watching her face. She’s flushed, catching her breath, her eyes closed again. He has no idea what to say to her. So he fumbles his arm to the floor, rooting around until he finds his discarded tunic, and brings it up to wipe his seed from her belly and his cock. Her eyes startle open at the touch of the cloth, and she blushes when she realizes what he’s doing—as if her boldness has deserted her in the aftermath. He opens his mouth before thinking about it.

“You’re as formidable in bed as you are in the field,” he tells her, meaning it fondly, but it lands wrong—her mouth trembles a little, the half-smile draining away, and he curses himself, tossing the cloth aside, and cups her cheek in his hand, running his thumb over her swollen lips.

“That’s a compliment, my lady,” he tells her. She blinks at him, her mouth still open, so he kisses her, tries to convey appreciation and reassurance with his lips instead of his stumbling, incompetent words. He feels sluggish and hazy, the blinding clarity of what he’d felt just a few minutes ago seeping away, replaced by the dregs of the wine. But Brienne is warm and wonderful, her mouth soft under his, and he feels her relaxing into the kiss. He sighs against her lips, relieved, and draws himself back up, tracing the line of her jaw with a fingertip.

“It is well, ser?” he asks. “Did I hurt you?”

She gives a small shake of her head, to his immense relief. “No,” she says, sounding a little surprised. “I was—it felt—good. I liked it. Did you...was that—”

He captures her hand, then, and kisses that too. “Very good,” he tells her. “And if that wasn’t clear, I’ll have to show you how much in the morning. If I weren’t an old man with sore bones and one hand, I swear I’d show you now.”

She blushes again at that, the freckles standing out against the flood of color, and he grins at her outright, feeling buoyant, before drawing the furs up to cover them both. Then he flops back onto the pillows, and pulls her close, tugging her head down to his shoulder so he can kiss her brow, her fair hair all tangled with sweat, cradling her to his chest, stroking the gooseflesh and down all along her arm. He can feel her smiling into his neck, and that’s reassurance enough for now, so he closes his eyes, content, and lets himself dissolve into the darkness, into the sound of Brienne's steady breathing and the crackle of the fire, warmer than he'd ever thought he could be in the fucking North.


	5. eat something (Brienne POV, the morning after, oral and a handjob)

She wakes feeling heavy and sluggish, with a faint pounding in her temples, as if a headache is lurking just around the corner. But she’s warm, and sleepy, and the furs are soft against her skin—Brienne realizes, as the mattress shifts and she hears feet meeting the floorboards—against her _bare_ skin. _Oh_. She never sleeps unclothed, not even in the swelter of a Tarth summer, but now she’s naked in this bed, and not alone, and she remembers why: remembers the hungry heat of his gaze, the thrum of his heartbeat under her palms, the taste of his mouth, the weight of his arm slung around her body in the night.

She turns to see Jaime rising from the other side of the bed, not a stitch on him, and walking soft-footed across the room, pausing to toss a log on the fire. He finds the jug of water she keeps on the windowsill and pours a cupful before draining it in one thirsty gulp. Her palms itch, remembering how the firm muscles of his backside felt in their grasp. It’s maddening that anyone should be so perfectly formed. She’d known that; she’d seen all of him before, but it’s different, now that she’s touched him, been touched by him. She’s awash with a cascade of clamoring feelings: admiration, desire, a fierce little thrill of pride and pleasure that she’s had him, if only for a night, followed by a nagging uncertainty—does he regret it? does he want to do it again?—and a sense of exposure that’s almost embarrassing, that makes her want to burrow back under the covers and hide her face from him, to pretend to be asleep until he speaks or dresses to leave or does anything else that will tell her what happens next. She has no map to guide her across this terrain. But then Jaime turns and sees her watching him, before she can even hide—and he smiles at her, and Brienne feels herself smiling back, unable to hold it in, even as she's biting her lip.

Jaime fills the cup again, and walks back to the bedside—oh, gods, she doesn’t know where to look, at his face or his chest or his strong thighs while they carry him across the room or at what’s between them, the memory of what he’d felt like inside her making the blood rush in her ears—but then he hands her the cup, drawing her out of her blushing reverie, and she pushes herself up on an elbow to take it and drink. The water is icy and refreshing, stripping the woolly foulness out of her mouth and clearing the cobwebs from her head, although the ache lingers around her temples.

“I should find us some breakfast,” he says, kneeling on the floor to fish around in the pile of clothing they’d discarded in their haste. His stump is propped on the bedside for leverage, and she’s looking at it, recalling the texture of the puckered skin in her hand, when he glances back and catches her looking, and grimaces, withdrawing his arm.

“I know it’s unsightly,” he says, and she blinks at him for a moment, surprised—and then remembers the way he’d flinched, his face darkening, when she’d startled at the chill of his false hand. It seems absurd, that he should think her capable of being repulsed by any part of him, but she knows he’s still uncomfortable about his disfigurement, and she can understand why. 

Brienne shakes her head, setting the empty cup down on the floor, suddenly less conscious of the way the furs have fallen from her shoulders, baring her arms and her breasts to the cool morning air. “That’s—not what I’m thinking,” she tells him, because she wants to make this clear. “When I look at it, I think about what you did for me, and what it cost you.” He meets her eyes, and she makes herself say it: “And there’s _nothing_ unsightly about you.” She knows she’s blushing, now, but Jaime grins, eyes crinkling in delight: the way he’d looked at her over the table last night, teasing, egging her on to drink in celebration. It’s almost boyish, the expression on his face—incongruous with the deepening lines around his eyes and mouth and the gray in his beard, and achingly free in its mirth, so different from the sharp-edged, bitter smiles of the prisoner she’d met all those years ago.

“Is that so?” he asks, slow and gleeful, and oh gods, she realizes, he’s going to make himself _intolerable_. “Not a single thing? So you’ve considered the subject at length?” He rises, naked and perfect an arm’s length away, his quarry on the floor discarded. He’s almost preening as he perches on the bedside, face alight with infuriating laughter. His merriment is wholly focused on her: predatory, the lion’s claws gentle at her throat, and she swats the closest arm in retribution. “Tell me,” he says, his voice low and heated, and she buries her face in the pillow, because she can’t look at him and say it, but the words slip out between her clenched teeth, unstoppable despite her embarrassment: “You are the most beautiful man I have ever seen. I _like_ looking at you.”

She hears his warm chuckle, and then feels his hand on her shoulder, fingers stroking down her arm. “Brienne,” he says, and then his fingers are on her jaw, persuading her face to turn up. He looks—carefree, buoyant, too delighted to be smug, and her heart does something odd in her chest, seeing him so unburdened. And then he leans down to kiss her, whispering against her lips: “I want you to.” It’s almost impossible to believe, but his eyes are sincere, and when he kisses her again, harder, she kisses him back, nipping his lip, and then he’s pulling the covers open and stretching himself out against her, breakfast apparently forgotten. Brienne doesn’t mind; she’s hungrier for his touch than for bread. She lets her hands rove all over him, making her yearning apparent, marveling that this is happening _again_ , that it’s happening at all.

By the time his hand drifts back between her legs, she’s ready to welcome it, but when he pushes a finger inside, she finds herself wincing slightly. Jaime halts instantly, withdraws. 

“Sore?” he asks, a warm rumble of breath against her ear.

“A little,” she whispers back. It’s not really painful; the flesh is just tender there at the rim, not unlike the soreness between thumb and finger after a long day with her sword in hand. “Don’t stop,” she tells him, but his fingers are dancing along her hip, now, and he just smiles and says, “I’ve a better idea.”

And then he’s kissing her breasts again, and down over the curve of her belly, dragging his tongue along the hollow of her hip, down to where her leg meets her— _oh_. It’s only a second before it happens that Brienne realizes what he’s going to do, and then his mouth is on her. The feeling is almost overwhelming, unlike anything she’s experienced before. It’s so different from his fingers, or her own, or his cock. Warmer and wetter and softer, even as the prickle of his beard on the inside of her thighs makes her shiver with little sparks of sensation. He goes from kissing to licking, like he’s tasting her, his exhaled breath hot and damp over the delicate skin, and he pauses now and then to draw the edges of her flesh between his lips, teasing and savoring, setting a different little piece of her on fire each time. His tongue pushes into her, gently, following where his fingers and cock had gone before, soothing away the soreness, and then he’s roving again, up and down and over, stoking the heat that’s pooling in the pit of her belly, kindling between her legs, flaring everywhere.

Jaime’s hand is as busy as his mouth, leaving tingling tracks along her trembling leg, up across her heaving ribs. When he tweaks a nipple, rolling it between his fingers, a mewling sound bursts out of her—it’s as if there’s a cord running from her breast to the impossibly sensitive place his tongue is seeking out, and he’s drawing it taut as a bowstring. She gasps again when he withdraws his hand, but then it’s suddenly on her own, where she’s fisted it into the furs. He tugs at her wrist, still gentle, bringing her hand to his head. “Lead me,” he says, voice low and rough from where he’s paused to look up from the sodden curls, and she nods unthinkingly, half-dazed, before she quite realizes his meaning.

She buries her fingers in his hair, and he groans with something like pleasure or desperation before lowering his mouth to her cunt again, his hand anchored on her hip, holding her there. She feels heedless, heady, like the wine is leaping through her veins again. And _oh_ , this is even better—her confidence builds along with the rising sensation, urging him to and fro, setting a pace for him, as her hips start to move too, rutting and bucking against his lips and tongue and teeth and nose and chin and cheeks, wanting to feel all of him; greedy. Her skin goes tight all over, and she can’t get enough air in her lungs, she’s panting and gasping and all the small noises buried in her throat are escaping out between her bitten lips. He shoves a hand underneath her, lifting her closer, fingers digging into her arse, and that feels so good too, she’s going up and up and up, straining against him, and then when she’s right on the edge of it, the bowstring ready to snap, he slips a finger inside her again, slick and painless, pressing and twisting, until everything in her is pinned between that sweet pressure and the rough drag of his tongue—and the release, when it comes, floods through her, a rolling tide rushing down to her toes, different than the last time, but just as wonderful.

Afterwards, he sprawls alongside her, and when she gathers her wits enough to roll over and kiss her thanks into his smile, she’s startled by the salt-sour taste of herself there. Jaime grins at her, looking outrageously pleased, and tangles his hand in her hair to kiss her again, drawing her body close. She realizes he’s hard, that he’s aroused by what he’d just done to her, and it’s a hunger she wants to satisfy. She could take him in her mouth, she thinks, return the favor, but she’s not quite sure how to please him that way. He sees her glance down at his cock, flushed and heavy where it presses against her hip, and he chuckles, recapturing her hand and drawing it slowly downwards, the trail of hair to his groin brushing against her knuckles.

“I’ll show you,” he says. “If you’re still too sore to—?” She isn’t, really; she feels warm and content and relaxed, but she doesn’t want to risk losing that feeling. So she lets him guide her hand and wrap it around him, his palm warm over her knuckles, as he shows her how to stroke him. She’d barely touched his cock last night, so everything feels like a discovery to her now. She’s surprised by how smooth the skin is there, almost silky, softer than any other part of him, and entranced by the way his neck arches back and his breath explodes out of his chest when she brushes her thumb over the exposed head, spreading the wetness beaded at the tip. There’s power in this feeling, in making him moan and twitch and throb under her touch. He reaches for her elbow, anchoring himself, and starts to fuck into her hand, and she feels it like a rippling echo in her cunt: the memory of how he’d moved inside her. He’s making desperate little noises, now, thrusting faster, and so she grips him more firmly and leans in to lick his shoulder and bite his nipple and drag her nose through the hair on his chest and then he’s groaning and pulsing in her hand, the feeling both odd and agreeable, his seed spilling wet over her fingertips. Brienne’s heard men come before, countless times, grunting in the darkness in tents and camps and inns, but it’s fascinating to witness it at close quarters, to have brought it about of her own volition—willingly and with pleasure. 

She lets go of his softening cock and brings her hand to her mouth to taste him, curious—it's salty, and bitter, with an aftertaste of iron. She must make a face of some kind, because Jaime makes a delirious little huff and she realizes his eyes are open again and he’s watching her. He chuckles at her blush, and leans up to kiss her, chasing away the flavor with his mouth, and there’s a pleased sort of rumble in his throat that she can feel against her lips. Brienne can’t remember the last time she’s felt this good: she wants to collapse into the soft furs and tangle her fingers with his and never leave this bed. But before she can find the words to tell him as much, her traitorous stomach growls, startlingly loud in the quiet space between their bodies, and Jaime falls back onto the pillows, laughing. For a brief moment she’s absolutely mortified, but then she looks at him, all the perfect lines of his body sprawled gracelessly across the bed and shaking with mirth, and the laughter wells up inside her too. Jaime slings an arm round her middle and draws her down against him as she begins to giggle helplessly. 

“A fine feast,” he tells her, when he finally catches his breath, “and I’ll hunger for more. But I promised you breakfast as well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day; this might be the softest smut I've ever written (it's based on a memory Jaime recalls in chapter six of Ring Them Bells). Stay-tuned for my contribution to Face-sitting February, coming up next.


	6. shut your mouth (Jaime POV, facesitting)

“Stop whining,” Brienne tells him, although he sees the telltale curve at the corner of her mouth that means she’s more amused than annoyed, and resumes the siege.

“Harsh words for an injured man. Are you so unsparing with all the soldiers under your command?”

“If you hadn’t over-extended that swing—“

“Ah, but it worked,” he interrupts, grinning; it’s only the second time since they started sparring again that he’s managed to disarm her, and he’s still a little heady with the triumph.

“—then wouldn’t have injured yourself,” she finishes, undeterred, bending to add more wood to the fire. Her stern manner makes him want to twit her about it again—so diligent, and responsible—but instead Jaime sits on the bed to remove his boots, grimacing at the stretch. His back hurts. It seems monstrously unfair that he should survive a battle against a horde of undead monsters with nothing more than some cuts and bruises and a lingering ache in his left arm, only to find himself laid low by a wrenched shoulder in the midst of a friendly spar. Brienne had had to help him out of his jerkin afterwards, and insisted on dragging him to the maester for a hot plaster, abandoning him there while she spent most of the afternoon tied up in conferences with Sansa and the rest of the Northern commanders.

“I did warn you I’m not the fighter I used to be,” he tells her, pulling his socks off and standing to unfasten his trousers and shove them down. Brienne ignores him; she’s stripping off her outer layers, down to the thin trousers and the undershirt with the laces his fingers have come to know well over the past fortnight. She pushes up her sleeves, hovering over the washstand to splash her face and her hands. Little beads of water caught in the fine hairs on her well-muscled forearms glisten in the firelight, and his mouth goes dry.

“An old man, and a cripple,” he sighs, mournfully—that might be laying it on a bit thick, but his back _does_ hurt, and he’s not above making an appeal to her overly generous nature. Or stoking the temper she usually keeps under such stubborn control. The truth is, Jaime still enjoys provoking her: in the beginning of their acquaintance, the impulse had been born out of a savage kind of boredom, and then he'd honed it into more deliberate cruelty, a weapon to probe his captor’s defenses. Soon it had become a more genuine sort of teasing, a backhanded way of showing respect to an opponent he’d come to recognize as an equal, and later, as an ally; more gradually still, as a friend. Now his motive is different.

“Come help me take this wretched shirt off,” he says, sitting back down on the bed.

Rolling her eyes, Brienne strides across the room and pulls the shirt over his head, and he shivers with pleasure at every brush of her cool hands against his skin. Jaime avails himself of the opportunity to ruck up the hem of her own shirt and press a soft kiss to her side, just above the curve of her hip, and now she’s the one who’s shivering: he can see those fine hairs on her arms stand upright.

“I thought you were injured,” she says, raising an eyebrow, and Jaime grins up at her. He’s always had a good head for tactics in the field.

“I think I could still make a fair showing,” he tells her, cupping her arse to pull her closer. “With a little assistance.” 

She huffs at him, but she doesn’t push his hand away, so he leans forward, nesting his forehead on the almost-imperceptible curve of her belly, and his aching shoulders relax, body slackening, while the whole room seems to grow warm around them. “Mmm,” he murmurs into her navel. “You see?” He hears her sigh with something that sounds a little like exasperation and a little like arousal, and smiles as she shifts her hips so he can tug the trousers and smallclothes down, his hand lingering to trace the line of a scar on the back of her thigh, then slipping below the curve of her arse to stroke her from behind. She’s already wet, he notes with satisfaction, and his cock twitches in response.

Brienne sighs again at his touch. “You have to be careful,” she warns him, but even as she’s saying it her hand comes up to his head to tug him closer, her long fingers brushing through the short hairs at the nape of his neck, making his blood fizz with anticipation.

“Your hands are much nicer than the maester’s,” he tells her, kicking his trousers away from where they’ve pooled around his ankles. “And you smell better, too.”

“Stop talking about the maester,” she mumbles, sounding rather breathless, and he looks up—she’s unlacing her shirt, and as she draws it off he sees her nipples are already stiff and wanting—and lets a wicked grin overtake his face.

“There’s a better way to stop my mouth,” he tells her.

She follows him onto the bed, stretching herself out next to him where he’s flat on his back, and she leans in to kiss him gently and thoroughly, making soft pleased noises into his mouth while he fondles her breasts and her hand strokes his hardening cock and _oh_ , he could enjoy this forever. But he has other plans in mind. 

When Brienne finally sits up and straddles his hips, moving as if to mount him, he says, “No. Not yet.” She stills, and frowns at him, puzzled.

“Come up here,” he says, catching her hip in his hand and nudging her forward, and he sees the flush go straight down to her chest when she takes his meaning. Some part of him has been wanting this since the moment she’d rocketed to her feet in that tub, flushed and indignant, the water streaming off her, the thatch of hair guarding her cunt almost level with his fevered eyes.

But she hesitates, now. “This way is better,” he says. “Since you want me to be _careful_ ,” he adds, and she scowls at him, then pauses.

“Are you sure I’m not too—“ she starts to say, and he interrupts her, speaking in a low growl: “Brienne. Come here.” 

And she does, knee-walking up his torso, a little ungainly, until she’s so close he can smell her desire. 

“Grip the headboard,” he says. “It will hold you; you won’t hurt me.” 

It’s a virtue of those long thigh bones that she can kneel above him, straddling his shoulders, with his skull nestled comfortably on the pillows, and plenty of room left for him to move. His mouth waters, looking at her. It’s not the first time he’s been face-to-face with her cunt, but the view is different with her above, holding her legs open, on display for him. He can admire everything better from this position—the full swell of her mound, the aura of pale gold fuzz, the delicate flushed pink of the inner lips, the stiffening nub peeking out from under its hood. There’s so much to touch and taste and enjoy. 

He splays his hand just above her cunt, pushing her mound up to unfurl everything beneath, all rose and red and shining with wet. He waits for her to move, to lower herself those last few inches, but she’s still hesitating, even though her breath is unsteady, and when he leans back to catch a glimpse of her face her eyes are dark with arousal. Jaime opens his mouth again.

“I’m just going to keep talking until y—" and then she’s on him, her thighs tensing with the effort, her curls tickling his nose and her cunt filling his mouth. He groans into her flesh, and feels her twitch in response—she likes it when he makes noise, he’s coming to realize; it’s new to him, after all those decades of furtive couplings, to loosen the reins on his tongue.

He rocks his head from side to side, letting his beard scrape her inner thighs, nuzzling the soft, furred folds, enjoying the salt-sour taste of her, and breathing in her smell: ripe and earthy, a little sweaty, and perfect. He licks her in long broad strokes until she’s humming with pleasure, and then he reverts to teasing: nibbling and sucking the petaled edges of her cunt, circling his thumb over the hooded peak, indirect and taunting, until she makes a desperate little whining noise and bucks forward, and he laughs. He catches her by the hip to steady her, and swats her lightly on the haunch, eliciting an indignant squeak, before kneading the flesh to soothe it.

Jaime loves her arse; it’s a good thing he’d never glimpsed her from behind in that bath, or he’d have gone mad in the years that followed, waiting to lay hand on this creamy expanse: the deceptive pillowy roundness of the cheeks, hiding the unmistakable muscle of a mounted fighter beneath their soft curves. He nudges her forward; lets his fingers drift upwards, gripping and stroking them, until he can press his thumb into that little dimple he loves at the base of her spine while he nips the undercurve of one cheek, tugging his teeth along the crease where it meets her thigh. Brienne is squirming against his jawline, growling softly somewhere far above, a sound that might be his name.

He’s dimly aware that his cock is so hard it’s almost painful, but he’s too deliriously overwhelmed to care. If she were to reach back and touch him, he’d come _so fucking fast_ —he feels his balls tighten just thinking of it; he almost moans the request. He would beg, if she made him. But right now he wants her solely focused on her pleasure, wants to be trapped here beneath her until she’s forgotten his name, even her own, forgotten anything but his mouth. He fucks into her with his tongue until she’s dripping, and then licks along the sensitive skin between her cunt and arsehole, wetting her there, too, so he can rub the rough pads of his thumb over the furled knot of it while he slides forward again to suck on the sweet little bud, its hood drawn back. She keens, high-pitched and breathless.

Brienne starts to move against him in earnest, then, grinding herself over and over his lips, his nose, his chin: making good use of every part of him, to his surging delight. He can feel the fine tremor in her thighs now, strained from the effort of holding herself up. She’s close, so close, and he realizes his hips are moving with hers, like he’s fucking the air, chasing her to the edge. He wants to slip his fingers inside her, feel her clench around them, but the angle’s all wrong, and with the heedless, driving way she’s moving, she might snap his wrist. So he scratches his fingernails down the curve of her arse and groans into her shaking cunt and she then she’s shuddering all over, crying out and going limp and boneless, as if her white-knuckled grip on the headboard is all that’s still holding her body upright.

For a breathless moment, Jaime thinks she’s going to sit down right there on his collarbone, and if she breaks his neck, well, there are worse ways to go—but she catches herself, remembering that he’s somewhat less durable than usual, and slides back down his torso until she can seat herself atop the cradle of his hips. She looks more wrecked than he’s ever seen her: lips bitten red, hair a tangled cloud, the milky, freckle-dappled skin of her chest all blotched with color. Her pupils are huge and half-focused, but he realizes that she’s looking at him, at the mess that she must have made of his face, and that she’s quite possibly speechless. It’s wonderful. 

“Didn’t think I could shut _you_ up,” he manages to say, hoarse and a little smug at his victory, and her eyes narrow—and then she shifts her hips back just a little further, until his cock is suddenly pressed against the cleft of her arse, and his vision whites out, and he moans his surrender joyfully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Facesitting February; this might be the filthiest thing I've ever written. I hope you enjoyed it.


	7. kneel (Brienne POV, a blowjob and more)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back and so is this fic (and soon, I hope, my other WIPs) after a break due to coughing for three goddamn weeks thanks to presumed covid-19. Avoid the rona, kids: even a mild case sucks.
> 
> Anyway this was supposed to be my contribution to Mouthfucking March, but I wrote the first draft in a viral haze and it wasn't quite right. So I sat on it for a couple weeks until I could edit it into shape, and it turns out to be less about mouthfucking specifically, although that's in still there. Many thanks to Roccolinde and sdwolfpup for taking a peek at various stages and offering helpful reassurance!

Afterwards, she still can’t be sure what prompted her to do it. They were in the bath, the two of them, a lesser-used pool under one of the towers, soaking away a hard day’s labor spent shoring up Winterfell’s broken walls, and washing off the grime. Jaime lets her scrub the soap through his hair; lately he’s come to more readily accept her help with tasks made difficult by the lack of a hand. And then they linger in the steaming water, lazy and unwound, just talking. Brienne treasures this easy, unhurried companionship, the way their conversation meanders aimlessly over the minor events of the day. It’s something she’s never really had before, and she’s surprised by how quickly it’s come to feel unremarkable to her, expected. When Jaime finally heaves himself out of the water, groaning at the stretch of sore muscles, and pads barefoot to the bench with the linen towels, she stays put, and permits herself the pleasure of watching him.

It’s not like she hasn’t looked, before. She’d watched young men swimming in the straits on Tarth as a girl, eyes skimming over their lean, muscled backs and long legs with a covert admiration she’d known even then to hide from her septa. She’d attended to Renly in his tent, grateful for the cloak and armor that hid the flush creeping down her chest at the sight of him stripped bare to the waist, or bending over in his tight breeches. But she’s never watched anyone else the way she’s watched Jaime, ever since that time in the bath at Harrenhal, when she’d first seen his beauty revealed, when he’d bared more than just skin to her. She’d been uncomfortably aware of his body for years, afterwards—unable to shake the memory of what lay under the fine clothes he’d worn in King’s Landing, the armor that girded him on the battlefield, even the simple soldier’s garb he’d donned upon arriving at Winterfell. But it’s not uncomfortable any longer, that knowledge. Now she’s free to watch, and unafraid to let him see her do it.

Jaime towels himself off while she observes him, and before long she realizes he’s making a bit of a show of it—bending over to dry his calves and ankles slowly, wiping away the thin rivulets of water running down the small of his back and beading on his thighs, his cock bobbing with the motion. He’s half-hard, she notices; he’s enjoying this little game. She wants to touch him, and the way he’s moving under her patient gaze tells her that he wants it too.

He glances back at her as she climbs out of the bath herself, and when their eyes meet, something charged passes between them—she’s still becoming accustomed to it, to this unspoken, urgent mode of conversation. It’s surprising how much information can pass between them with just a look, how their bodies speak so clearly without words. Or maybe it’s always been that way, since the first time they’d danced at swordpoint—it’s just that they’re speaking in a new register now, one with no pretense or deniability, and no need for it.

Brienne is learning the steps in this dance too, so she parries—reaching for a towel and wringing the water from her hair, taking her time, studiously avoiding Jaime’s eyes, even as she feels his heated gaze on her skin like summer sunlight, making her hairs stand on end. She dries herself in a more cursory manner, wrapping the linen around her torso before she finally steps closer to where he stands, waiting for her. The humid air almost seems to crackle, now, suspended in the quiet pause before a lightning storm hits. There’s a smug smile hovering on his mouth, and it deepens when she sets her hand on the towel slung loosely around his waist, pulling it open and letting it drop to the floor. But the smirk evaporates as she lowers herself carefully to her knees, and his mouth falls open. He wasn’t expecting this. She wasn’t expecting it of herself, except she’s been thinking about it for days, working up the courage to try.

His cock is standing all the way up now, the curve of it jutting from its hairy nest, reddened and insistent. She leans in slowly to nuzzle at the juncture of thigh and groin, the coarse hair tickling her nose, while she breathes in his scent. He groans appreciatively when she shifts back and kisses the tip, and groans more loudly still when she finally sucks the head into her mouth. He tastes like the mineral tang of the bathwater, but under it, there’s something else—the familiar flavor of his skin, somewhat stronger here, and a faint musky smell that mingles in her nose with the scents of sweat and oil soap.

From the way she’s heard men boast of this, in taverns and war-camps, she’d thought it couldn’t possibly be something she’d enjoy. But it strikes her another way now, because it’s _Jaime_ —it’s Jaime’s lean, strong thighs trembling under her palms, Jaime’s quickening breaths in her ears, Jaime’s cock hot and heavy on her tongue. That makes all the difference.

She tries to take him deeper, then, hungry to experience more—but her throat tickles and she has to back off for a moment and cough, her eyes stinging. Jaime touches her cheek, his fingers gentle and warm on her skin. “You don’t have to,” he says, and she glances up from where she’s kneeling—the first time she’s knelt for him since he knighted her, she thinks to herself—and sees the corded tension of his neck, hears the rough edge in his voice. She can read him perfectly well now. He wants this, even if he won’t ask, and it’s that as much as anything else that makes her say “I want to,” and mean it.

Jaime exhales, and fumbles for her palm. “Use your hand, too,” he suggests, wrapping her fingers around the base of his cock, showing her how to grip it, how to control him, before she takes him back into her mouth. She’s more careful, this time, mouthing and sucking the head while she strokes the shaft with exploring fingers, pausing occasionally to lick a long stripe up the underside while he quivers and gasps at her touch. He’s making wonderful noises, and there’s a sweet, hot throb growing between her legs in response. She feels herself getting wet as he moans and bites off half-spoken curses and says her name like it’s a plea, and it makes her bolder, tempts her to experiment, to add her other hand. She cups his arse in her palm, squeezes—oh, he _likes_ that—and runs a fingertip down the cleft, ghosting over his hole, tickling through the hair on his balls, the strangely soft and wrinkled skin beneath. She can taste something different now, salty and strong, when she tongues the slit on the head of his cock. She squeezes his arse again and he gets louder and _oh_ , she likes that too, likes the feel of him anchored between her hands and her lips, at her mercy. His hips are shifting forward in tiny aborted motions, and when she looks up, she sees his eyes are closed, his features transfigured by something that could be either pleasure or pain. He’s holding himself back, and she wants to make him let go. Brienne draws back for a moment, her lips releasing him.

“You can move,” she tells him, and his eyes snap open, the color rising higher in his face as she takes him back into her mouth, and he nods. Jaime cradles her cheek in his hand, his thumb brushing against her ear, and starts to thrust, careful and shallow, rubbing himself against her tongue, her cheeks, the roof of her mouth, but never deep enough to make her gag. He’s fucking her mouth, she thinks, and she feels her cunt clench with understanding at the rhythm. Jaime’s fingers tighten on her jaw, a warning—he’s trying to tell her he’s close. She releases him, almost reluctantly, but she’s not sure she wants him to spend in her mouth yet, remembering the bitter taste she’d sampled. Jaime pulls her up to kiss her, fierce and appreciative, and Brienne reaches for his cock, thinking to finish him off that way.

But he stops her. “Please,” he says, his voice ragged and desperate, “Let me—I want to come inside you.” And she drinks moon tea every morning now, so why not? She wants him there too, feels her body aching to be filled.

Brienne glances around the alcove, evaluating the options—the stone floor is damp and cool and doesn’t appeal, but they could always climb back in the bath and do it there—before she realizes Jaime’s already catching her elbow and turning her to face the bench, steering her gently. She grasps his meaning, and bends over it, bracing her hands on the worn wood, shifting her feet to widen her stance and letting her back dip into a low curve. They haven’t done it this way before, and she flushes when she thinks of how she must look—arse in the air, exposed, wanton, waiting for him to take her. But it thrills her a little too, that feeling of shamelessness. She’s never imagined exposing herself this way, feeling safe enough to turn her back and lower her head and let someone do this to her, with her.

And then his hand is firm on her hip and his cock is nudging between her legs and it feels so good, to have him there at last, rubbing against her where she’s slick and swollen and ready. Jaime pushes inside her, thick and hot and full, and the familiar feeling is different from this angle, different and wonderful—the sensation of his hips pressed flush against her arse when he sinks all the way in, and withdraws partway, and then plunges back into her, his breath hot on her neck. His hand slips forward, down to the apex of her cunt, to press right at the place where she needs him, until she’s caught between the blunt rhythm of his cock inside and his fingers outside, caught and pinned and trapped with no escape left but to spiral upwards into ecstasy, the shocking pleasure making her cry out as she quakes around him. It’s only a few moments more—his thrusts coming as fast and hard and desperate as his breath—before she feels him stiffen and pulse inside her, and then he slumps forward, groaning, trusting her to take his weight while he recovers.

When he withdraws, he helps her stand—her legs are trembling, weak—and draws her around to face him again, and kisses her like he’s been hungering for her mouth all his life. Brienne feels herself smiling against his lips, her whole body thrumming with the echo, both pleased and a little shocked that she’d done something so forward, and liked it so much.

Jaime runs his hand through her hair, cups it at the nape of her neck. “We’re going to have to wash again,” he says, his voice low and fond, and the peal of her laughter echoes off the wet stone walls.


End file.
